


On Wasteland Relaxation

by ActualWritesThings



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Masturbation, Other, Porn with Feelings, mainly sad ones, running away from your problems doesn't work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 19:40:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6342442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActualWritesThings/pseuds/ActualWritesThings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a long time since the Lone Wanderer left DC. Longer still since she could relax. Finally, in the middle of nowhere, she gets the opportunity to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Wasteland Relaxation

The basement was cool and dark, but it was dry and there was even food still left on the shelves. Admittedly, they were the shelves in the very back of the basement, back where it was dark enough that even Lettie had to switch on the small lantern she'd traded for. She'd placed the last of her mines on the stairs, the ones she couldn't quite bear herself to part with out of a fear of a future where she might need them for something other than weight in her pack, as a safeguard against all the horrors that the wasteland could provide. There was an old mattress stashed in the darkest corner, the remnants of a set of floral sheets crumbling into threads the minute Lettie reached out a hand to touch. But it wasn't mildewed or covered in blood, so she'd take it.

Setting her pack at the foot of the bed, she dug around it in and drew out a dusty bottle of alcohol. Scotch. She thought she had another bottle of whiskey, but apparently not. Still, alcohol was alcohol and she told herself she couldn't sleep without it. It might have even been the truth.

The scotch burned on the way down, childhood disappointment in every swallow, a bitter melancholy in the back of her throat. It took most of the bottle for Lettie to start feeling much of anything, to feel that telltale numbness and heat spreading through her, enough that her bones feel loose and warm, like they were taken out and spread to dry in the reactor, electricity still dancing across them. It was a good feeling, and Lettie let herself strip off all her clothes expect her underwear, folding them neatly and placing them and her gun on the ground next to her back.

The cool air of the basement pricked at her bare skin, goosebumps dancing across her body as she lay down on the blessedly soft mattress and closed her eyes, willing herself to just fall asleep. It didn't happen.

Instead, there was an itch in her bones burning at her, just deep enough under her skin that she couldn't even scratch at it. Frustrated, Lettie sat back up and grabbed at the mostly empty bottle, unscrewing the cap and draining it in a few swallows, ignoring the way it stung. Dropping the bottle to the floor, she thudded back down onto the mattress, shifting slightly, trying to get comfortable enough to finally be able to sleep. It didn't happen.

Grumbling, she switched tactics. There was just enough alcohol in her system to make it seem like a good idea as she let her hand wander lower, dancing lightly across the skin below her navel before venturing even lower still. She knew she should probably just close her eyes, focus on breathing deep and slow until her body finally got the hint that she could finally sleep after at least a month of being on edge. But she didn't, instead grinding the heel of her hand against her crotch before pulling away, the touch just rough enough to leave her wanting more.

She quickly shucked off the last few scraps of clothing and spread her legs, planting her feet against the mattress as she ran a finger lightly along her outer lips, brushing against the slickness of her folds before finding her clit and carefully flicking at it. Her other hand brushed against a nipple, rolling it between her fingers as she moved her first hand, slipping first one finger, and then another in. Placing her thumb on her clit, she pressed down, the pressure almost enough to be overwhelming, but not quite enough to do anything more than make her slicker, make her desperate. Not until she started moving her hand, finding a rhythm and sticking to it, hard and fast enough to make her pant, thrust back against her hand, hips skipping off the mattress, did she begin to feel better, feel her body wind itself tighter.

And it wasn't hard to imagine that it was Butch above her, that she could feel the heat of his skin and the way his hands would dance across her skin and – no. She refused to let herself think of him at this time, doing her best to banish his face from her mind, to forget the way he'd drawl her name right before kissing her, to force everything about him that infuriated her and intoxicated her in equal measure out of her mind. She didn't miss him. She missed him a lot.

She thrust herself against her hand hard, thumb applying just the right amount of pressure, back arching as she came. As she rode out her orgasm, she bit her lips, partially out of habit, partially because she didn't want to hear either a sob or his name on her lips, didn't want that aching reminder of what she'd abandoned. Eventually, she removed her hand, wiping it as clean as she could on the mattress before curling onto her side in a tight ball and closing her eyes, already feeling the need to fall asleep.

She prayed she wouldn't dream of him this time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Loved it? Hated it? Want to scream at me about it? 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://notactuallyherenotreally.tumblr.com/post/141630792237/on-wasteland-relaxation-actualwritesthings)


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